Sins of the Father
by xfailingxheartbeatx
Summary: His father was John Grayson. Bruce Wayne raised him. But who was his biological father? The truth may be far more sinister than anyone ever imagined... Warning: Language and bloody imagery courtesy of the Joker. Done for a YJmeme prompt.
1. Bury Your Dead

I've had this idea in my head for quite a while, and finally got the inspiration to post it after seeing this prompt on the YJ Anon Meme. Warning: We're heading into Joker territory now, which means blood and dark stuff. Just letting you know.

Disclaimer: I am not, even in my wildest dreams, the owner of Young Justice or anything DC comics related.

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_The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple - Oscar Wilde_

**xXxXxXx**

Lately, Dick Grayson has had a lot to deal with. What with leading a double life as a vigilante and being leader of the Young Justice team, aka Nightwing, such responsibility was expected. As was a certain accustomed attitude towards bizarreness. In the past few weeks alone, he'd dealt with an alien invasion, the departure of his mentor to a trial on a foreign planet, not to mention The Light's continued progress towards its unknown goal.

...yet he couldn't fathom why on earth he was being summoned to the Gotham City Senior Care facility at almost midnight of all things.

But Dick had a strange feeling about this appointment and was curious to know why the message had been so urgent. So he took a cab through the normally busy streets of Bludhaven and made it to Gotham in record time. To his continuous surprise and growing suspicion, the door to the facility was still open, as if awaiting his arrival.

There was a single night nurse on duty at the front desk. She hardly spared him a glance as he approached, despite him showing up _way_ past visiting hours.

"Good evening, ma'am," he greeted politely, extending a hand for her to shake. "I'm—"

"Mr. Grayson, correct?" she finished. A cheery smile lit up her otherwise tired face. "Visiting hours ended a while ago, but I've been informed to make an exception in your case. Come," she said promptly, hooking a finger down the hall.

Stunned, Dick retracted his hand and slowly moved to follow._ Curiouser and curiouser...which reminds me, I need to return Arty her copy of Alice in Wonderland. _

"Here we are," she announced after leading him down the hall, gesturing to the door she'd stopped at, and Dick waited, sensing she had more to say. "I'm so glad they managed to find you on such short notice. At the end of it all, family is the most important."

Then she trotted away before Dick could question her any further.

_Well, the white rabbit was no help,_ he huffed. Cautious and slow, as to not disturb the resident inside, Dick opened the door. _It's about time I find out where this rabbit hole has lead._

Nobody was present except for an old woman lying asleep in bed. Dick slowly slid the door shut. He walked to the edge of the patient's bed and observed the medical chart hanging there.

In short, it read:

_Ethel Napier. Age 76. Stage four lung cancer._

According to the chart, Mrs. Napier didn't have long left on this world. In fact, judging by the timeline her attending physician gave, she could go at any minute. Visualizing himself in this woman's room as she passed without even knowing why sent a shudder down Dick's spine.

Suddenly, the woman awoke in a jolt, revealing a pair of sluggish brown eyes dimmed by the influence of drugs. When they fell upon him, however, the dying embers of her retinas ignited like a flame of recognition.

"Oh...oh, it's _you,"_ she sighed, a smile curving around her wrinkled cheeks. She looked close to tears. "My boy. My dear, sweet boy. Let me have a look, here."

Dubiously, Dick stepped forward. He hadn't any idea why the woman was acting this way, but after seeing the dosage of morphine they had her on, he could excuse it. Stepping out of the shadows, he watched as the weary, wrinkled face lit up in absolute joy.

"How handsome you've grown," she remarked amazedly. "And those eyes...they're _gorgeous._ Just like hers..."

That detail left him only more confused. Dick had always been told he'd inherited his mother's eyes. So, maybe this woman was a friend of the family who met him too far back for his infant mind to recall? An old acquaintance of Haly's Circus?

In an effort to avoid giving himself a headache, Dick decided to discover what he could from the she in question before coming to a conclusion.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Napier? But I...do I know you? I'm sorry if I don't remember, but maybe I was too young," he said reasonably.

The smile fell from the old woman's face.

"We've never met," she answered sadly, which surprised Dick into silence. "And I regret it everyday...but, it was for the best, I suppose...or at least, the police supposed...they said I couldn't have contact whatsoever. It hurt, but I understood. It was my duty to keep you secret. Keep you safe."

Her lower lip wobbled. "But Officer Wales _promised_...promised me, that he'd make an exception, that he'd bring you to me, just so I could see you once before I passed on. That's all I asked."

"Mrs. Napier,_ I _don't understand." Dick shook his head in frustration. "Why am I here? _Why_ did you want to see me so badly?"

A sad, little smile graced Mrs. Napier's face.

"'Cause you're my grandson," she enlightened, sorrow tainting the fringe of what was meant to be bright tone of voice. "And you're all I've ever dreamt of meeting since the day I lost my son."

"Your son?" said Dick slowly. Did that mean that Dick...? But no, the woman was clearly confused. "You must have me mistaken for someone else, ma'am. My father's parents were—"

"Graysons," she clarified, sounding more lucid than Dick gave her credit for. "Lovely family. That's why Officer Wales was so adamant on letting them have you. Such loving, wholesome circus folk..."

He tried to ignore how his hands began to shake, or how the words opened up a pit of dread in the base of his stomach.

"What are you saying? I was adopted?" He scoffed. This conversation was becoming less sane by the second. "That's ridiculous. How could I have never known?"

Mrs. Napier's grin was almost dark. "If the police want something hidden, they can certainly make the trail disappear. And I'm sure the Graysons, lovely as they were, hadn't the heart to tell...well, most secrets _are_ buried for a reason."

Dick didn't disagree with that—it was everything else he was having a tough time believing. Trying to rein in his incredulity, he forced the coversation on.

"Alright, let's say any of this was remotely believable; why keep it hidden? Mrs. Napier..." he began gently, mindful of the wound he was prodding at, "...who was your son?"

The grin slid right off her face at the request.

"His name was Jack. Funny boy. Always first to crack a joke, always last to be picked for kickball. So strange, so smart. But mine nonetheless." Her line of speech trailed into oblivion, lost in the distant swirl of memories, and he watched her eyes go glassy as her mind drifted off...

_"Ethel!"_ Dick exclaimed.

Then she blinked, and the reverie receded, leaving her as stranded in the present as he was.

"Sorry, dear. I think I left for a minute. I was remembering the day I lost my boy." She glanced at him sharply. "Also, it's very rude to address your elders by their first name."

At the absurd amusement the admonishment brought, Dick laughed shortly. It quickly subsided due to the seriousness of the situation, the sound sobering them both. He pressed forward, "How did it happen that day?"

"Jack got tangled up in some bad business," she explained hoarsely, coughing a wry laugh. "He had a knack for trouble. Starting it, at least. This time, though, I think he got in too deep to dig himself out. Or maybe he just didn't want to..."

Her eyes darkened in a manner that had nothing to do with the drugs and everything to do with grief.

"My boy may not have died that day, but I lost him anyway. Jack Napier put on the Red Hood and never took it off."

_The Red Hood? _Dick knew that name. He had been through Batman's old case files more than once. _But that's...no. No, it can't be._

"He was caught and chased through the plant and fell into the chemical waste; there the toxins turned his skin white, his hair emerald, his lips blood red, and his heart black as coal."

Dick's heart fled into the pit of his stomach.

_No._

"My son became the comedian he always wanted to be," Ethel said in a hollow voice, "and the monster known as the Joker."

_NO!_

"No," Dick choked, mouth finally catching up with mind. "That's wrong. It _has_ be wrong."

"Jeannie," Ethel sighed nostalgically, the glassy gleam to her gaze returning full-force. "Sweet Jeannie, my daughter-in-law. She was utterly devoted to him, despite his eccentric tendencies...she loved him anyway, despite the fact that he got scary sometimes. I blame his father."

She chose not to elaborate on that ominous accusation, and went on,

"Even after he tried to murder her in a psychotic rage, she still wanted _his_ child to live. She crawled, bleeding profusely, and begged the ambulance to hurry, to save you, that's all she asked..." Her voice grew somber and sad. "She died minutes after the emergency C-section...hadn't even a chance to hear you cry..."

And that was the last straw.

"Lady, you're insane!" yelled Dick, standing up in rush. He needed to leave this place and never come back, erase this lunacy from his mind, and _forget and forget and forget_ forever. His mother hadn't died on an operating table, she'd died a hundred feet below the tightrope; that clear-cut fact still clutched at his chest coldly.

Whatever lies this woman was intent on spouting, he didn't want to listen anymore. Dick was so angry he seethed, "This is a sick joke, even for _the Joker's_ mother!"

His hand was on the doorknob, ready to twist it and wretch it open, ready to leave this madness behind. Until Ethel spoke up again.

"You have his laugh," she cried out.

Frozen where he stood, Dick forgot to breathe. The horrible hysteria in that single statement shattered his determination to leave like glass. As though a blind man searching for salvation, he stumbled into his seat again, face buried in his trembling hands.

They remained silent for a long, _long_ time.

"Why?" asked Dick eventually, voice deceptively calm. "Why would you summon me to your deathbed, only to tell me these horrible things?"

Ethel's eyelids drooped, while something akin to an apology registered on her face.

"All I ever wanted was the chance to say goodbye," she confessed wistfully, exhaling a soft breath and shutting her eyes in exhaustion. "Goodbye, Richard. And may all the rest of your years be happy."

Five minutes ago, the only thing on his mind had been getting the hell out of this room. Now, Dick sat motionless in the uncomfortable plastic chair. He sat and stayed silent and wasn't disturbed. The clock on the nightstand ticked by. One, two, three hours passed, until the same clock read 4:07am.

He waited until the steady rhythm of her heart monitor faded into failure. He owed this poor, old woman that much. The night nurse came inside and didn't both to resuscitate. She simply unplugged the machine and covered Mrs. Napier's serene white face with an even whiter sheet.

"Thank you," she whispered, careful not to wake the dead. "For making her last night worth it."

She must have presumed he was in a stupor of grief, because she let him leave without a reply, and didn't react when he slammed the door behind him.

Dick paused outside the building and stood on the sidewalk, just trying to breathe, just trying to figure this out and not have a panic attack.

What Ethel had said...everything she had said...none of it could have been true, right? Of course not, no. Her story didn't make sense...but the details, considering her state of mind, had been eerily in depth and accurate...and her desire to see him before she died..._that_ was genuine.

But what about everything else? Had that also been—

"Get a grip, Grayson," Dick snapped himself out of it. "Stop indulging her delusion. Just an old lady's delirium. Nothing more."

He started walking towards the nearest pay phone to call a cab when the idea struck. Officer Wales. That was the man Ethel said worked with the police, the person who summoned Dick to her in the first place. If anybody could clarify this tangled mess, it would be him.

And, well, he was already in Gotham...why waste the trip?

Sighing, Dick changed direction and went in search of the Wales' residence. Honestly, he didn't want to go doing detective work on a case long closed, but...but a part of him _needed_ to know. That didn't stop the other part from feeling sick.

He hated digging up old graves.

Afraid of the ghosts he might find.

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So...opinions, thoughts? Good, bad; continue, scrap it? I tried to keep Dick in character, so hopefully I suceeded, and Ethel Napier (a character of my own creation) well, what did you think of her? In fewer words: Please, Review!


	2. Ignorance is Bliss

Hello, lovely readers! (: I was pleasantly surprised, as well as happy, to see how many of you were interested in this story! And since I already had most of this second chapter done, I figure you all deserved it!

Next chapter may take a while longer, but if I get a lot of feedback, perhaps sooner than I originally thought.. *wink wink*

Disclaimer: If I owned anything DC or superhero cartoon related, they would bring the Teen Titans show back, Dick and Damian would still be a dynamic duo, and Lian Harper wouldn't be dead. Alas...

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_There is no refuge from memory and remorse in this world. The spirits of our foolish deeds haunt us, with or without repentance __- Gilbert Parker_

**xXxXxXx**

The Wales apartment was located on the second floor of the Gotham Estates apartment complex, fifth window from the left. Finding it was easy enough. Getting in would prove to be just as simple.

It was the whole 'explaining why I just broke into your house' conversation that was going to be a hassle.

Luckily, Dick was in no mood to waste time on preliminary politeness. Swiftly and silent, he scaled the two-story wall and slipped in the window—the locks were old, and with a bit of jiggling, gave in and opened.

The place was quiet and quaint; exactly what you would expect of a retired officer's household at roughly five in the morning. Dick crept into the kitchen, past the static-buzzing television set and Lazy Boy recliner. Everything was as it should be...

Until the lights abruptly switched on and Dick found himself staring at the barrel of a loaded gun. Quickly, he retreated back into the darkness.

"Retirement hasn't seemed to slow you down, Officer Wales," he said from the shadows.

He had forgone his Nightwing costume and decided to come wearing his civilian clothes, lest he raise the question of why a young vigilante was looking into a cold case that had occurred roughly around the same time as his own birth...

Officer Wales grunted out a laugh. "After two decades on the force, boy, you really think you could get the drop on me?"

"Not unless I wanted to scare you into a heart attack, which wouldn't serve my purpose," Dick said airily, emerging from the cover of darkness. "I need you alive to answer my questions."

Wales' eyes narrowed, his finger still clutching the trigger. "Oh, yeah? What sort of answers are you looking for?"

"The horrible kind," he answered ominously. "The hidden kind."

The former officer of the law scoffed. "Like I said, kid, I worked for the Gotham City PD for a long time. Gonna have to be more specific than that."

"I met my grandmother for the first time last night. I watched her die," Dick revealed evenly, trying to keep the anger out of his tone. "Or is she really my grandmother at all?"

Raw, unrefined shock registered on the officer's grizzled face, before an appalling comprehension dawned.

"You're the Napier baby," Wales realized. He lowered his weapon and ran the same hand through his thin gray hair, going from guarded to exhausted in all of a minute. "Jesus Lord Almighty, I thought I'd settled this nightmare _years_ ago."

Fuming, Dick didn't say a word.

Wales appeared to debate over whether or not this confrontation was worth the trouble. In the end, his conscience must have won, because he sighed and ushered Dick in with a, "Come on in, then."

"I am already in," he felt the need to point out.

"Well, now you have an invitation, so sit your ass down," the officer ordered, grumbling under his breath, "Lucky my wife's on a bingo bus trip and won't be home until tomorrow."

While Dick did as directed and took a seat across from him, Wales rummaged around in the fridge, bringing two fresh beers with him to the table.

"Beer?"

"I don't drink," Dick declined.

"You will after I tell you this story." Wales took a moment to appraise him for the first time in eighteen years. "It's Richard, isn't it?"

"I usually go by Dick."

Wales snapped open his beer with a chuckle. "Nice name. The Graysons did well picking it. See, your mama died before she had the chance. Wonder what she would've called ya'. Hopefully not _Jack Jr."_

Dick's face must've been more aghast than amused, so Wales hastily changed the subject.

"Did she pass peacefully?" he asked quietly, referring to his recently deceased grandmother.

"Yes," replied Dick.

"Poor soul," Wales breathed. "Ethel was a nice lady, Richard, and I don't want you to have any misgivings against her. She was through a hell of a lot in her life, and she still had to die alone."

"She was pleased to see me there at the end," admitted the raven-haired boy.

"I'm glad," said Wales. His brow furrowed in earnest. "I wouldn't have sent you otherwise."

"I wish you hadn't sent for me at all," Dick mumbled resentfully.

Wales, to his credit, took the comment in stride.

"Listen up, kid, and listen _good._ I'm going to tell you something only a handful of people know." He set his beer aside with another sigh. "I assume you know about the Red Hood story, as most people do. But I'm going to go out on a limb and assume Ethel must've mentioned something about what happened to your mother that night?"

Dick nodded tightly.

Although it happened over a decade ago, Wales still looked aggrieved by his own recollection.

"When that call came in, when our operator heard that desperate mother pleading for help, my partner and I raced there with an ambulance in tow. I rode with her. All the while, she just kept saying, over and over, 'Save my baby, please, don't let him die, please, just save my son...'

"When we arrived, they told me that if they went ahead with the C-section, she would probably die. And I had to make that call. So I told them the truth: Told them she wanted her baby to live." Wales paused. "I heard the cries before I heard the heart monitor fail. They cleaned you up and gave you to me, because there was nobody else in the waiting room...

"Bundled in these blankets, I saw a beautiful, innocent creature. I wondered, how could something so sweet and pure be born of murder and madness? At that point, the Red Hood fiasco had already went down, and I knew that I couldn't let this child grow up with that heavy burden hanging over his shoulders."

"So you hid my real identity."

Shrugging, Wales continued, "Child Services is an easy place to lose a paper trail. And it wasn't long before that circus couple found you; you were a beautiful baby, after all, we didn't think it'd take forever for you to find a home. They were wonderful people and I met with them myself. I explained the sensitivity of your case, and they understood, and they wanted you anyway. They fell in love at first glance. So you became Richard John Grayson. And the Napier baby simply disappeared into the system."

The tense atmosphere that followed his story was broken by Wales himself, who tried to console his guest with a tentative, "Maybe, someday, they would have told you the truth. They were honest people. Maybe when you were older."

"Yeah, I guess they never got the chance," said Dick bitterly. "You know what happened to them ten years ago, don't you?"

"I heard," said Wales solemnly. He took a hearty sip of beer and crushed the can. "It's a damn shame."

Dick deftly read between the lines: _Shame nice folks like that die when mass-murderers like the Joker live. _

"Show me the case files," he said all of a sudden. Wales stared at him immovably, but Dick had been taught by best detective in the world, and therefore, was not easily fooled. "If you kept the paper trail clean, I'm assuming they aren't stored at the station. Get them out."

"Boy, I just told you everything you need to kno—"

"Show me," Dick insisted harshly.

"Yeesh," Wales muttered, taken aback. "Kids these days, pay no heed to what their elders say."

Even as he said it, the officer was maneuvering his old bones towards what Dick could only guess to be a storage closet. He waited for solid six minutes before Wales found the files. Even then, the man was reluctant to hand them over.

He slammed the box onto the table, out of Richard's reach, and leveled him with a stern glare. "I'm warning you for the last time, kid: You won't like what you see. Now as far as I'm concerned, you were born a Grayson and that's what you were raised. None of this Napier crap means anything, ya' hear?"

This was his last chance, the opening ready for him to grasp. He could take Wales' words to heart, claim to have seen the light, walk out the front door and nobody would ever blame him or put him at fault. Except Dick. _He_ would have to live with the uncertainty for the rest of his life, because he was too much of a coward to dare seek the truth.

And the boy Batman raised ought to have more courage than that.

"My mother died on that operating table for me," Dick said quietly, dismissing the officer's pleas. "I need to see what the bastard did to her."

Knowing the battle was futile, Wales relinquished the files, although it pained him greatly. Yet it couldn't possibly compare to Dick's inner turmoil as he viewed the photos of the crime scene, the bloody mess of a kitchen that he could've grown up in, the tarnished apron Jeannie Napier had been wearing, or the sight of her wounds against the blurry background of the autopsy table.

To top it all off, there was face of the perpetrator, splashed across a mess of mug shots, grinning gaily at the photographer. Unashamed of what he'd done, or perhaps too psychotic to care.

Bile burned the back of Dick's throat, but somehow, he kept it at bay. Thick tendrils of rage flared through his veins, erasing any traces of other emotions like revulsion, sorrow, and fear. Of course, they too, would have their turn. Eventually.

"Why did nobody ever tell me?" he demanded tremulously, the urge to outright yell almost irresistible. "Why did I have to find out like this?"

Wales glanced at him, sensing the explosion about to erupt, with wary eyes. "It wasn't my place."

That, though, proved to be what set him off.

_"Not your place?_ You're so involved in this case that it should have been _you_ who told me a long time ago!" Dick raved.

"Kept in the dark, at least you were happy!" Wales defended just as passionately. "Are you feeling much better now that you have the truth? Eh?"

Fists clenched at his sides, Dick bit his tongue so hard it nearly bled, unwilling to admit defeat aloud.

"Thought so," the officer seethed, as if to say, 'I rest my case.' But the boy wasn't finished yet.

"I deserved to know," Dick adamantly repeated. "I had a right to know."

Collapsing back into his chair, the retired officer grabbed Dick's untouched can of beer and opened it with audible _snap._

"Be honest with yourself, son," Wales said softly, pointing at the picture of the Joker's deranged mug shot. "What child deserves to be cursed with a father like _that?"_

For all his years of wisdom, Dick couldn't fathom an answer.

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So it's sort of short, I suppose, but hopefully informative. It was for poor Dickie, at least:( Why must I always torture my favorite characters? I blame the my diabolical muses XD.

If you really want to see more, please REVIEW! You know where the button is!


	3. Welcome to the Club

Hello, all! Welcome to the third installment, and thank you each and every one who reviewed, favorited, or followed this story! Your efforts give my fingers the strength to type!

Disclaimer: Nope, I do not own.

A/N: By the way, I forgot to mention that this story takes place after S2E05 _Beneath_, but before S2E06 _Bloodlines. _Also, I was thinking about giving this story a cover, so if anybody knows any good pictures that would fit this fic, I could use some suggestions.

Anyway, on to the story!

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_The angry boy, a bit too insane_

_Icing over a secret pain_

_You know you don't belong_

_-Jumper, Third Eye Blind_

**xXxXxXx**

She haunted his dreams at night.

There wasn't a second of sleep to be gained without the constant view of her countenance, pale and bloodied by death. Often, Dick would awake with a barely muted yelp, breathing hard and unsteady, looking around the room for any signs of unwelcome visitors.

Which only left him feeling scared and silly afterwards, because no matter how many times his gaze searched the room, Jeannie Napier never crept into his line of vision from between the shadows.

Running fingers through his sweat-slick hair, he sighed. _This is why I hate digging up old graves. _

Because the bodies you find always follow you afterwards. Always.

Feeling equally nauseated as he did exhausted, Dick decided that a midnight stroll through the Cave wouldn't do him any harm. The fresh air might clear his head, might give him a reprieve from the incessant pounding in his skull. Grabbing his domino mask and applying it to his face—out of instinct more than anything—Dick quietly exited his private quarters.

The air in the Cave was slightly cooler, danker, washing over his fevered skin in a much-needed bath of clarity. He felt better out in the open than in the confines of his room, and he basked in that fact, content when he saw that none of his nightmares were waiting around every corner.

Glaring at his bare feet upon the floor, Dick let his mind wander, and began thinking about the rest of the Cave's inhabitants. Wondering what the others were dreaming about, if their evenings were also disturbed by figments of their imagination. Speculating how they would react if they knew about his and the ghastly reason behind them. The question filled him with more fear than any dream could.

_Would they hate me? Scorn me? I may not be my father's son, but it's just another secret I've kept from them to protect my own skin. I'm the worst. I _come from_ the worst. How could they ever look at me the same after knowing? No, I can never tell. I can't risk losing any more family members...not in this lifetime._

Distracted and mentally unaware, he jumped unexpectedly when a hand dropped onto his shoulder—_a hand, just a human hand, not cold and clammy like a corpse_—nearly provoking Dick into a full-blown panic attack. However, after realizing who the arm belonged to, the young hero forced his body to relax.

"Conner," he said relievedly.

_I _must_ be out of it. I'm usually the guy scaring the pants off people..._

"I heard you scream," said Conner concernedly.

Of course he had. Despite Dick's attempt to smother his shout, super-hearing was the one factor he hadn't counted on. But Dick had spent half his life lying. Donning a smile reassuring enough to throw Superboy off was child's play.

"That was nothing. Just a bad dream."

"A bad dream?" Conner sounded unconvinced.

Dick smiled wider. "A really, really bad dream," he amended.

Shrugging, Conner eventually accepted it. It was unclear if he actually believed it or not, but if he did, he certainly wasn't going to call Dick out on it. That was one of the things that made talking to Superboy so easy. He rarely ever judged.

"What are you doing?" he asked, when his original teammate took up the space aside of him. In lieu of a reply, Conner simply shrugged.

"Mind if I sit, too?"

Dick quirked a brow in his direction. "Keeping me company?"

"In case of another really, really bad dream," Conner reasoned.

Absurdly, Dick snorted.

Sitting there with Superboy did alleviate his anxiety, though, helping his heart rate slow down to normal pace. Maybe it was the clone's overwhelming presence of strength that kept the fear at bay. Honestly, what nightmarish vision would dare mess with the Boy of Steel?

More than that, being near his one of his oldest teammates, even without saying anything, made him feel a little less alone in all this. Just because he had sworn not to tell another soul didn't mean that's what Dick needed. What he truly needed was a friend or confidant, somebody who would listen and just let him get everything off his chest.

Besides Wally and Roy, both of whom were out of sight and mind currently, Conner was probably his closest friend. Over the years, they had bonded and learned to trust each other in a dynamic akin to their mentors'. Given Conner's experience with evil fathers tempted Nightwing further, because Golden Boy of the League or not, he could really use some advise from someone who'd been there before.

"Hey, Conner?" he said suddenly. "How do you deal with it?"

"Deal with what?" the clone asked quizzically.

"Being the son of Lex Luthor."

The moment the words slipped out, Dick knew he'd hit a nerve. Saying it had been stupid, but he was so desperate to talk to somebody, yet at the same time, so terrified of anybody getting close to the truth. Still, that didn't excuse his mistake, and by the instant widening of shocked blue eyes, he assumed that Superboy thought the same.

"Where is all this coming from?" Conner demanded to know, voice low but teetering towards the edge of suspicion.

"Sorry," Dick said quickly, moving to stand up. "Sorry if I upset you, man, I just...I was curious is all, okay? Forget I ever asked."

Conner caught his wrist. Dick was actually thankful for the twinge, the pain helped clear his head. Taking the hint, he returned to his spot beside the Boy of Steel, waiting for the reaction to come.

When he finally deemed himself ready to speak, Conner was decidedly calm. He had come a long way from someone who used to freak out in a fit of rage over the tiniest thing, Dick acknowledged.

"It's not about dealing so much as it is about accepting," Superboy began quietly, with his teammate hanging off every word. "One day, I looked at myself and said, 'Alright, the other half of your DNA that isn't Superman comes from his arch nemesis. That's what you are: the cloned son of Superman and Lex Luthor.'"

Icy blue eyes darted over to Dick, and though he hid behind the cover of a mask, he had never felt so bare. "But the question you posed was, _"How do I deal?" _And the answer is, I remind myself that I am Conner Kent, not Conner Luthor. That who I am matters a whole lot more than _what._ Dealing isn't accepting the truth—it's overcoming it."

Awed by that surge of wisdom, Dick produced a small but sincere smile for the clone. "Sometimes, I forget how insightful you've gotten since the day we freed you from that Cadmus pod," he remarked wryly.

"Feels like forever ago," Conner admitted. "But being a part of this team taught me that I wasn't put in this word to a lonely, destructive weapon. That's all people need sometimes, I think. A reminder."

Apparently, that's what he figured Nightwing needed, too. "Whatever you're going through, and there _is_ something, you know you're not in it alone. We're still a team, even if some of us are missing. We're in this together."

Coming from their team's resident sour-and-glower-man, that assurance was about as touching as it got, and the effort he put into saying it sent Dick's aching heart to a lighter place; but as usual, his brain betrayed his soul with darker sentiments. Although on the outside he was consoled by Conner's words, his mind was a thousand miles away.

_Yeah, together. Together we can create the Young Justice Evil Fathers Club. I'll be the president, because my father's the definition of pure chaos, while at least your DNA donor has the decency to do his job discreetly._

"Hey."

A nudge to his shoulder brought Dick back from the brink.

"Try to get some sleep," Conner suggested seriously.

"Will do," he saluted, mustering a goodbye grin. His teammate abandoned his post beside of himself with the assurance that Dick would be heading to bed soon, too.

After the distant whoosh of Superboy's door being shut, Dick stood; however, he had no intention of returning to his room, where the nightmares still crawled along the ceiling and walls, waiting to spoil his slumber. If he wanted any hope of evading them tonight, he was going to need reinforcements.

Wary of waking up another member of his team, Nightwing stealthily crept across the floor and into the kitchen. Opening one of the many cabinets, he sighed in silent triumph.

Sleeping pills.

They were originally the perscription they bought for Gar when he first came to the Cave, when the nightmares about Marie's death were too raw for any surrogate mother to heal. Eventually with M'gann and Dick's help, the young shape-shifter learned to cope, and the pills have lain forgotten in the back of the cabinet ever since.

Since Gar had only been a child then, they had always given the suggested dose of one tablet. Dick was an adult, so he estimated it would take at least two to do the trick.

But he swallowed three just to be sure.

* * *

The next morning, Dick awoke feeling refreshed and more well rested than he would have thought possible. Though a lingering sense of grogginess stuck to his limbs, he simply stretched out all the kinks and emerged from bed in a better mood than last night. It was uncanny what a few hours of decent shut eye could do for a person's state of mind.

His good spirits departed when the alarm went off, the blaring sound signalling a situation that demanded their attention. Not missing a beat, Nightwing quickly changed into his costume and rushed towards the briefing room.

"What's up?" he implored upon entering, ignoring the feel of eyes (most likely Superboy's) on him.

"Trouble," Robin said shortly.

Mal nodded and, as the last of the team arrived, started briefing them on the present situation they had been ordered to handle in Gotham (seeing as how Batman was away, his city required the extra attention). He showed them a live feed of what the diabolical duo had been caught in the act of doing, putting it on the screen for everybody to see.

Every bone in Dick's body tensed as Mal disclosed the coordinates, the face on the screen paralyzing his body into stone. It was like the old saying went.

_Speak of the devil, and he shall appear._

* * *

This chapter is slightly slow, I know. Nothing exciting yet. Next chapter, though, will be much different, I swear(: Feedback keeps me going! So please, _Review_ down below!


	4. Speak of the Devil

Well, I waited until I hit 30 reviews and then I said, 'Girl, you better get a move on with this!' Gah. This chapter I had absolutely nothing pre-written, and wasn't really sure how I wanted it to go...Hence, the wait. *sweatdrops* And after a particularly long and tiring weekend, plus a busy week, I managed to finally finish it!

So, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

_No one knows what it's like to feel these feelings_

_Like I do, and I blame you_

_And no one bites back as hard on their anger_

_None of my pain and woe can show through_

_-Behind Blue Eyes, Limp Bizkit('cause I like his version better)_

******xXxXxXx**

The Scarecrow wreaking havoc amongst Gotham City's citizens. Nothing new there. Teaming up with the Joker to do it? Also not unheard of.

Nevertheless, Nightwing was on edge.

Anybody could notice it if they were perceptible enough. His jaw was clenched tighter than usual, the sound of his molars grinding together almost audible. His fists were shaking at the strength in which he was squeezing them around the controls of Superboy's bike. The biggest tell of all though was, thankfully, hidden behind his mask. But if anyone could still see beyond it, they would certainly know...

They would be able to see the passionate fire blazing like two blue flames.

_Why? Of all villains who could be attacking Gotham today, why him?_ he mentally moaned. _Fate, do you hate me that much? What is it about this week that compelled you to completely tear apart my life?_

Or was this just karma revealing itself at least, here to punish him for being born of pure evil?

Stop it, Dick ordered his own mind, which was starting get carried away. Of course, it had been dealing with quite a lot of baggage recently; perhaps being a little dramatic could be condoned.

On either side him, none of his teammates were aware of the inner turmoil raging with their leader's noggin, nor did they seem intent upon anything besides the mission at hand. Robin, Blue Beetle, and Batgirl were professional like that.

He hadn't wanted to bring Tim or Barbara (they knew him well, too well), but it made sense to bring Robin and Batgirl, whose home city was Gotham, and he didn't want to draw suspicion to his judgment, did he? Of course not. Superboy had already been staring at him strangely since last night, but at least Nightwing hadn't been questioned for leaving him out of this mission. Nor did anybody second-guess his decision when he excluded Miss Martian, either.

_Because they trust you,_ a traitorous voice in the back of his head sneered. _Pity you can't return the favor._

Ignoring that line of thought, as it could only lead down a dark road, Nightwing forced himself to stay focused. Hell, if he had a choice in the matter, he wouldn't have let himself come. He was the biggest liability of all, but no one else knew that. And he preferred to keep it that way.

In the end, the desire to protect his secret overrided his better sense of judgment.

_This is mad!_ that same traitorous voice exclaimed. _You're compromising this mission because you're so damn scared of facing the truth!_

_I'm not scared, _Dick denied fervently, his fingers clenched to the point of pain. _I can handle this. All I have to do is disassociate—it's just another role to play, an act to put on. I'm great on stage._

Which was true. He was no stranger to pretending or performing. In fact, it was practically a way of life. It _was._ Lying to protect himself and those he cared about... This secret was no different. The less his friends knew, the better.

"Nightwing?" called Robin suddenly, snapping him out of his reverie. "We've arrived."

Nodding, Nightwing steered the bike into a clean landing, close enough so that they could charge right into the chaos raging in downtown Gotham. Removing his hands from the controls, he flexed his left hand. The fingers felt numb.

Perfect. Now it wouldn't hurt as bad when he pummeled the Joker's painted face in.

"Ready to go catch a couple maniacs?" Batgirl cracked at his side. Nightwing pulled a smirk, hoping none of them saw how humorless it truly was.

_Cue curtain call._

"Let the show begin," he muttered under his breath, before charging into battle.

* * *

The scene they arrived to couldn't be described in a few short words.

Innocent people who had caught a whiff of the Scarecrow's new concoction were attacking others—their eyes were blank, their mouths hung agape, their bodies stiff due to the drug-induced stupor. Honestly, they were the closest things Nightwing had ever seen to those zombies from the horror films he and Wally used to watch.

"Looks like Scarecrow's cooked up something good this time," Robin remarked seriously.

"I'll say," Nightwing muttered.

"Ay carumba," Blue Beetle mumbled. Then, after a pause, he seemingly whispered to himself, "No, we can't kill them! They're not real zombies, just whacked out people!"

_Arguing with a voice in your head. I can relate, _Dick thought grimly.

As if on cue, his own inner demon spoke, _Get your head out of the gutter, Grayson! You've got a mission to lead. _

Taking the initiative, he did just that. "Blue Beetle, Robin, save the civilians with as little harm to them as possible. Batgirl, you go after Scarecrow, see if you can't get those gas bombs away from him. Be care not to breath any of it in."

"What about you?" asked Blue Beetle.

"I'm going after the Joker."

The clown prince of crime had yet to make an appearance, which was odd, considering he loved the spotlight. Definitely not a good sign.

"By yourself?" Batgirl inquired, concerned.

"Yeah, I can handle it," he played it off nonchalantly. "Go on ahead."

He didn't wait to hear her acquiesce. He trusted them to do their job and stop the Scarecrow. He knew they'd do the right thing, they had been taught well. Too well. Perhaps that's really why he didn't want them tagging along...

_Maybe I'm afraid they'll stop me from doing something I should not even be considering..._

Nightwing shook the foreboding thought aside. He he had enough stuff tormenting the inside of his skull as it was. He needed to, as he told Artemis those many years ago, "Get traught or get dead."

Scanning the street for any signs of the clown prince of crime, Nightwing was almost surprised when a bomb of smoke went hurtling past his ear, but he had been awaiting this ambush, after all—so he simply executed a perfectly timed flip and landed to safety. Well, as safe as a person could be with the Joker hovering nearby.

"Oh, it's the oldest of Batsy's bunch," the Joker remarked excitedly. He frowned in disappointment. "I was hoping your old man had come back from his little trip by now. I've been missing our little chase scenes ever so terribly!"

"Cut the crap, Joker," Nightwing snarled. "You'll just have to settle for me."

The villain shrugged. "I guess I will!" Without further adieu, he unleashed another attack, using much better aim.

Nightwing flipped out of the way, narrowing avoiding the bomb by a few centimeters. He bounced back and caught the Joker's side with a well-placed punch, but the madman only chuckled, the pain of no consequence to his fun.

"All fight and no play will make you a dull boy," he sang at Nightwing, as the two continued to do battle. "Didn't Daddy Bats ever teach you that?"

_Daddy._ Just hearing this poor excuse for a man say that word—a word he had no right to say, not anymore—set Nightwing off. He was tired of this cat-and-mouse, sick of these mind games and unamusing jokes. He was going to end it. Now.

Grabbing a batarang from his utility belt, he spotted a nearby clothes line and used it to cut the laundry line. The Joker seemed to think this was the funniest prank ever, until a pair of damp shorts hit him in the face with a wet smack, giving Nightwing all the opening he needed to deliver the finishing blow.

With the Joker down and his sanity still intact, Nightwing tackled him to the ground and caught the batarang as it flew in his direction, smirking in triumph.

"My, what a predicament you're in, Mr. J," he mocked, quoting Harley's nickname for her beloved boss. Mission complete. He had the Joker incapacitated and unable to escape... And the batarang still in his hand. Before his mind could catch up to his actions, he held the sharp edge of the weapon the air, hanging precariously over his captive's jugular vein.

The Joker saw where the weapon was poised and didn't even blink. In fact, the clown laughed.

"Gonna do it, then?" he cackled. "Finish the job? Is little Batsy Jr. going to kill me!"

_I _could_ do it, _Nightwing realized._ I could end everything. Right here, right now. He deserves it... For my birth mother...for Jason...for all the other people he's hurt or killed! He deserves to die!_

_But at what cost?_ And it wasn't the traitorous voice creeping along the edges of his conscience that spoke. It was Bruce.

His mentor, Batman, who had found a nine-year-old Dick Grayson prepared to murder the man who had taken away his parents. Young Dick had tearfully claimed it was in the name of justice. And the knowing, haunting figure of Batman had stated that it was the name revenge. There was a difference, and he needed to learn, the caped crusader had concluded.

After that, Batman had taken him under his wing, and Dick had learned his lesson. He didn't have an excuse anymore. He knew better. Killing this psychopath in cold blood wouldn't make his adopted father proud. It would only turn him into the very monster he despised. There was a fine line between what made them the heroes and these people the villains. Despite the bitter loathing he felt towards his biological father, Richard just couldn't bring himself to cross it.

Slowly, Nightwing lowered his fist. The bataarang fell limply from his grip.

"I won't," he whispered fiercely. "I will not stoop to your level."

"Aw, such a stick in the mud," the Joker scoffed, as this was such a letdown. However, he never stayed blue for long. "Maybe this will help you loosen up!"

He should have seen it coming, shouldn't have let his emotions get the best of him. Should have _known_ the Joker would have another bomb up his sleeve, like he always did—but he hadn't, and therefore, had only a second to prepare before a quarter of the deserted street exploded into a mist of miasma.

Nightwing gagged, the putrid taste of poison invading his lungs. He quickly brought a hand up to shield his face, blocking out the gas, as the shrill sound of the Joker's laughter filled the fog.

_You have his laugh..._

Without waiting for the smoke to clear, Nightwing followed the sound and delivered a kick, hitting something solid. He kicked again, and again, until the the gas began to diffuse and world around him became clear. He saw the Joker's body, alive but unconscious, lying a few feet ahead of him.

Feeling victorious yet very drained, he removed his hand from his mouth and all at once began coughing. It took at least two minutes for them to subside, at which point, the rest of his team arrived with their defeated villain in tow.

"Whoa, Nightwing, take it easy," said Robin, placing a gentle on his arm. "Are you alright?"

_No, Tim. I think I'm the farthest possible thing from 'alright' there is. Help me, please._

"Fine," was what he actually replied. "You guys get the Scarecrow?"

"Trussed up and ready to be sent to Arkham," Batgirl confirmed.

"And the citizens?"

"Unharmed and headed for the hospital," reported Blue Beetle.

"Good. Well done," he said to the trio. "Tie him up, too. We'll drop them off, then head back to the Cave."

"Dick," Robin repeated once Blue Beetle and Barbara were out of earshot. "Sure you're okay?"

The reassuring smile that curled around his mouth came on instinct. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

_Curtain close. Act I complete._

* * *

That night, Dick slept restlessly. Unsurprising, after the previous day's events. Worse was the fact that the sleeping pills were gone, so it looked like was on his own.

_As per usual,_ he mused wearily. _But I guess I only have myself to blame._

Needing to wipe some of the sweat from his face, Dick headed for the private bathroom that adjoined his bedroom. His limbs felt shaky and stiff; perhaps an effect from the nightmare? Or maybe another symptom of sleep-deprivation.

Well, quivering legs he could deal with, Dick decided as he turned on the faucet of the sink, splashing some water onto his fevered skin. At least tonight he had not woken up Conner.

_But you're not alone, either, _the earlier voice in his head returned with a vengeance. This time was different, though...this time the words weren't within his mind. They had been uttered aloud.

Startled, Dick looked up, only to see _the Joker himself_ in the mirror. He barely concealed a cry as the reflection tilted its ugly white face at him, its maniacal grin identical to one he had fought earlier today.

_"Still fine, are we?"_

"You're not real," he rasped at the reflection. "You're locked up in Arkham."

"Oh, I'm real alright. I'm a part of you, see? A part you'll never be rid of, nope," the Joker mocked in a sing-song voice, taunting him with his worst fears. "Father knows best!"

Dick's face clouded with rage. "Shut up!" he hissed, smashing that maddening face in. The mirror shattered beneath his fist, and with it, so did the Joker's visage. He breathed in a ragged breath, shivering despite there being no cold.

"Fine?" he repeated to the empty bathroom, the throbbing of his bloody knuckles in sync with his rapidly beating heart. "No, I'm not fine. Not at all."

Unfortunately, nobody was there to hear his confession, nobody but himself.

* * *

Not my best, I'll admit. I sort of hate it. But, to be fair, I just wanted it _done._ It was mocking me with its incompleteness... Next chapter, though, I shall redeem myself! Muwahaha! (Review, please, lest my mind go as crazy as the Joker's? If it's not already...maybe that's why I enjoy writing him so much).


End file.
